


Saints & Sinners

by burymeinziam



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 23:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burymeinziam/pseuds/burymeinziam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Zayn knows he and Liam are wrong. They always have been and they always will be and some things will never change. He can see it in the way Liam holds that girl so close that it burns Zayn to his very core and makes his heart collapse every time he walks by. Liam just doesn’t seem like a sin to him. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saints & Sinners

**Author's Note:**

> there are some religious things in here. i looked some stuff up but, you know, im not like an expert in these things so im sorry if there are any inaccuracies. also, im aware zayn isn’t catholic. i just made him that way for the sake of storytelling.

Zayn isn’t sure how much praying does for anyone but he’s got rosary beads in his back pocket and more than a few things to say. His fingers are cold because it’s winter and the wind isn’t feeling very forgiving as he makes his way toward the quiet stone-faced church. He’s going to speak words of reverie, words of want.

The church door looms and Zayn can’t help but to feel that bit of awe and fear mix with the vodka on his breath. His stomach clenches with nostalgia and he wonders if he should just go straight to that place of confessions and hide against that thick screen that always seemed to catch all of his worries (like that time when Zayn was in the seventh grade whispering about his love for boys and his stash of dirty magazines hidden in the deepest, darkest corner of his closet). Zayn figures that maybe if he tells whoever is on the other side of that screen that he’s praying for a sin, they’ll put in a good word to the man upstairs.

Because Zayn knows he and Liam are wrong. They always have been and they always will be and some things will never change. He can see it in the way Liam holds that girl so close that it burns Zayn to his very core and makes his heart collapse every time he walks by.

Liam just doesn’t seem like a sin to him. Not really.

Zayn self-consciously tugs the sleeves of his jacket down to hide his tattoos as he walks inside. He can feel the weight of the cross as he takes his seat at the front pew. Zayn just needs to feel closer; closer to Jesus or God or something, he isn’t sure. This is how he knows he’s feeling desperate. After all those years of lip-synching hymns and cursing behind a bible, he’s back. He’s back and he’s praying for things he shouldn’t even be asking for; praying for Liam’s girlfriend to disappear, for Liam’s lips to crash against his own without the itching, nagging reminder in the back of his mind that it doesn’t mean forever; or anything for that matter. 

This is how Zayn knows he’s feeling desperate.

All he can taste is the cool mint of Liam’s chewing gum.

All he can feel is Liam’s skin against his own.

Zayn presses his hands together as he prays. His eyes squeeze shut as he forces himself to focus, to try and hear some sort of message from God – or maybe the Virgin Mary. Zayn had always been closer to his mom, anyways. But Zayn just feels so itchy and sacrilegious as scattered thoughts of Liam eat their way across his brain. It’s Liam’s movements and his lips and that longing at the back of Zayn’s throat whenever Liam looks at him. It’s the way Liam looks through him like he doesn’t really see him no matter how much Zayn wants him to.

Zayn prays for Liam’s enlightenment. He says enlightenment because he figures he needs to choose his words carefully because, when it comes down to it, he’s still talking to God. He uses the best words, the ones people only use when they’re trying to make a good impression. Zayn’s words are polite, he uses complex phrases.

He wants Liam to feel endeared by him; amorous. Zayn prays for the bread of Liam’s skin to meet the wine of his blood. He wants to take communion in their flesh. 

And then it all feels so much dirtier than it needs to be.

Guilt gnaws at him and he gets out the rosary beads. They almost remind him of that twenty-five cent energy shot people order at places like Jamba Juice or Starbucks; just a little something extra. Like God will listen more carefully if he has some plastic beads interwoven with his fingertips. But Zayn is talking to the Virgin; or at least he’s trying.

More guilt piles on Zayn’s shoulders and all he can think about is Liam’s hands in her hair, weaving and turning and moving and wanting.

Wanting. That’s what hurts the most.

Zayn’s body shifts as he repeats all of the stupid chants and memorized prayers he’s learned over the years.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

“Hail Mary, full of grace…”

None of them work. Zayn tries to find the moment, that feeling of salvation, but it doesn’t come and he has this itching feeling that it’s because it’s been Liam all along. Liam is that moment, that sense of salvation Zayn is so desperately searching for. When he thinks about it, Zayn is afraid Liam would laugh if he knew where he was right now because, honestly, when was the last time Zayn even thought about God?

If Liam knew where he was he’d probably drag Zayn out of the church saying something about him not needing to be a hypocrite. Liam would take Zayn home and they’d watch shitty television their hands touching every so often as they shared a couch. It would be like that time they were holed up in Liam’s apartment during a thunderstorm. They’d held hands under the blankets and Liam let Zayn put his head on his chest; he’d felt Liam’s lips on his forehead.

He felt safe.

But then the lights came on and Liam acted as if it never happened. It was just a miracle nobody ever believed in.

That sick feeling in the back of Zayn’s throat worsens and he’s filled with a sudden longing to be her. He’d do anything, be anyone, just to feel that close and Zayn hates it. He knows that she has some sort of right or privilege because she knew Liam first, but Zayn also feels entitled because he and Liam accomplished something together. They wouldn’t be where they are now without each other and that has to mean something. That has to have some kind of leverage.

Zayn remembers meeting Liam and everything being so easy. Talking came easy. Laughing came easy. Secrets came easy.

Love came easy.

Zayn remembers Liam telling him about his first time – the way she moved beneath his fingertips – and Zayn remembers going back to his room and crying himself to sleep. He remembers Liam telling him about how he “accidentally” fucked a guy even though they both knew that Liam had wanted it.

Zayn remembers the way Liam had pushed his hair out of his eyes and then asked Zayn why he was crying. Zayn just made up some bullshit excuse about not wanting Liam to go to hell, but they both knew that was a lie too.

The next day Zayn let some college drop-out who worked at the liquor store down the street take him in a bathroom stall with his back pressed against the wall next to a poorly drawn dick with a phone number written next to it in faded black sharpie. They did it three times and Zayn bled three times. He just closed his eyes and pretended it was Liam even though the small of piss and shit made it hard to believe the lie.

Zayn doesn’t know the tears are coming until they do and he pretends that Mary is sitting next to him the way his mom used to do. He’s never felt so alone in his entire life. His body is hunched over and now he’s praying for something like a car crash or an easy coma; a clean cut for his broken heart.

The way she kisses him, the way she touches the tiny mark just above his collarbone. Zayn wishes he could be that mark and rest against Liam’s skin for a thousand years.

Zayn’s neck is aching and his body is trembling from his own rageful tears and he’s praying please, God, make this stop. Mary, please, make him love me. Make me beautiful—fuck, make me anything he needs me to be.

Zayn bangs his hands hopelessly against the cherry wood of the pews not caring as his rosary beads snap and scatter along the floor. What started as praying is quickly becoming a breakdown and he no longer feels any mother Mary or sweet savior Jesus on his left or his right. It’s all cold air.

Zayn hears a crunch of beads and his heart stills, then sinks because he knows the footsteps don’t belong to Liam. He looks up though, nearly blinded by tears, and sees a father walking towards him. There’s pity in his eyes and it only makes Zayn feel worse.

Zayn speaks Mary’s name quietly as the father takes a seat next to him. The father’s eyes are thoughtfully trained ahead of him as he wraps an arm around Zayn’s shoulders as if he were a brother or an old friend. Zayn hunches over and his shoulders shake with his tears. The heels of his palms dig into his eyes and they throb and burn. He can feel the warmth of the father’s hand on his back and it feels comforting and it grounds him but does nothing to soothe the dull ache in Zayn’s chest.

“She hears you,” the father whispers as he leans forward so Zayn can hear him. He hugs Zayn close like nobody else has bothered to do in a long time. “Those who suffer are beloved in his eyes.”

When Zayn looks up the father has already stood and is walking toward the back of the church, the rosary beads crunching beneath his shoes. Although his vision is still blurred from tears, when Zayn turns his attention back to the front of the church he can still see Mary staring back at him in the stained glass window.

Zayn’s head is still clouded and his heart still feels heavy in his chest but, somehow, he feels as though the weight resting on his shoulders is a little lighter.

Zayn feels a little like Jesus resurrected.


End file.
